


prove me wrong, please

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [3]
Category: Skins (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what this moment is – you could recount it second for second – for how many times you’ve found yourself with her in one just like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prove me wrong, please

_And these fingertips will never run through your skin,_

_and those bright blue eyes can only meet mine across a room_

_filled with people that are less important than you_

* * *

 

At the door, your eyes are cast downward so you can see the way Emily’s hand fiddles the hem of her top, the way one foot keeps rolling onto its side then flat again. Like she’s been standing too long and the bottoms of her feet are sore as a result. Except it’s not that, but a nervous habit. One you’ve forgotten entirely until you see it happening, and then this image – sort of broken up by your poor recall – just resurfaces while you’re stood there in front of her.

Katie’d been a cunting bitch, as per, and you’d stormed off from the group, struggling in your shaken rage to find a lighter in that ridiculously humongous bag that somehow made you feel more important, simply by nature of its size. But you didn’t find the lighter, or at least, not quickly enough, before one was being proffered by a small hand with chipped nail varnish. And Emily rarely spoke to _anyone_ back then, let alone you. So it was less odd for you both to be stood there, sharing a lighter and smoking your fags without saying a bloody word. But then when she did speak, you hadn’t looked directly at her – still too fucking scary, that – and kept your eyes at your shoes [or _hers_ , really].

“Katie’s just trying to get a laugh because she knows her own personality is such a fucking joke.”

The sound of her voice was almost jarring back then, making it easy to forget just how fucking lovely it was, in that you so rarely heard it. Even more lovely when she felt brave enough to talk shit about her slag of a sister. You’d maybe wanted to tell her that, or at least allowed yourself a laugh or a smile – allowed yourself to share even some insignificant moment with her at Katie’s expense. But it’d be long months before you let that happen – before allowing yourself to share _anything_ with Emily. And even longer before you would be able to do it sober. Which you were then, incredibly, fucking sober and stood on some street you can’t remember, in some section of Bristol that’s faded from your memory. So you’d said nothing, kept your eyes low, and watched Emily’s feet, in pearlescent ballerina flats, as they rolled onto their sides then laid back flat against the pavement.

That you’ve somehow gotten back to this place, where it’s easier to not look at her, where it feels safer to keep your eyes downcast, doesn’t escape you.

But then she asks, “When is your flight tomorrow?”

 _Still just as jarring_ , you think, and look up at the sound of her voice. _Still just as lovely_.

“Midmorning. Eleven, I think.”

Departure time is 11:37, actually. Terminal five. You’ve no idea why you think keeping things vague will make leaving any, fucking easier.

“Can I—“ Emily starts, stops. Starts again, “Should I not call you?”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and fiddle the door handle with your left hand. You’ve opened it, the door, and are leant against it, like some sort of crutch to keep your balance while attempting to say your goodbyes. It’s still early morning, and the corridors are quiet, your ears ringing from all the silence.

“I don’t know,” you finally tell her.

Emily nods, like she gets it. Like without any further explanation she already understands. Like she knows there’s not really a good answer or a proper way to do this.

“I suppose,” you start again _slowly_ , feeling quite careful now about saying too much because you’ve sure as fuck said more than enough already. And Emily just watches you ease into it, taking these short, calculated breaths like someone who’s trying to keep from crying. “I’d like to know that you’re alright. Once you’re with Katie or – back home.” And you nearly vomit to say the word, your stomach revolting at the thought of Emily going back to the flat she shares with Rose for any length of time when you can’t be around to protect her. When in just over 24 hours, you’ll not even be in the same, fucking time zone.  

“I could phone you once I’ve picked up Katie. Maybe we could,” she swallows, clenches and unclenches her fingers around the bottom of her shirt sleeve. The one that’s stained with stripes of old blood. “I mean, I’d like to see you again before you go.”

“I’m honestly not sure that I’ll have time.” You stand upright and breathe out. Cross your arms in front of you, alternating your weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve got some loose ends to tie up at the venue, and packing—“

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she says, a smile appearing on her lips then disappearing so quickly you almost think you’ve imagined it.

“I _do_ want to,” you then say, your tongue running away with your thoughts yet again. “Of course I want to see you, but that’s – that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Emily stops fidgeting when your eyes meet – stops moving her feet and stills the nervous twitches of her fingers. You then stop breathing, it seems, or you at least take oxygen in at such a shallow rate that it _feels_ like you’ve stopped altogether. You know what this moment is – you could recount it second for second – for how many times you’ve found yourself with her in one just like it. And Emily _knows_ you know, which is why she’s gone stoic. It’s always safer, the longer you’re both immoveable. You’re looking at her eyes – the only part of her still moving, quickly darting between your own – because the second you look away, you know your gaze will plummet downward. Over the delicate slope of her nose and onto her lips.

 _That will be it_ , you think. That will be your fucking ruin.

And when Emily cheats the rules with just the quickest dab of her tongue across her lips, your resolve vanishes immediately.

You’ve moved a hand to her waist, press your palm fully against her stomach – easily the most intimate touch you’ve had in lifetimes – until she’s forced to take a step back from the impact. Until her back’s pushed up against the doorjamb. And Emily just takes this quick, short breath at making contact – maybe from your hand or the doorframe behind her – with her lips barely parted.

It’s been a long time coming, this. And, leaning in you think, you were fucking doomed from the start.

It’s the most insignificant of noises – a tiny bell chime – but it echoes through the corridor, and you pause as Emily blinks, slow and deliberate. The sound of the lift doors sliding open follows and then a quiet chatter of voices drift towards you. It’s chamber maids or room service or the early arrival of new hotel patrons. It doesn’t really matter what or who, just that it’s happened is enough. You take a step back, let your hand fall slowly from her waist, and watch a thousand different emotions cross her face. One of which, you’re certain, is relief.

“Fuck.” You fall against the doorway opposite her and move a trail of fingers to your lips.

Emily doesn't say anything. Just stands facing you, taking short, measured breaths. Nor does she react, not really, to the space you've just taken, then given back.

“Ten years, Emily. Ten  _fucking_  years.” Your voice is loud enough to create its own echoes in the empty corridor, though you’ve muffled it slightly by rubbing your hands over your eyes and down your face. Exasperated, you look back to her. “And in less than two months we’re back to _this_?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“It doesn’t matter anymore – who’s done what – does it?” It’s how she’s always felt to you anyway: totally and completely inescapable.

Emily blinks back fresh tears before running a hand through her hair and looking away, tucking the loose strands behind an ear. You watch her movements with some newfound regret, because it’s what you want your hands to be doing. It's where they’d have gone – into her hair and along her neck and shoulders – had you gone through with it. It doesn’t make any kind of sense, to instantly regret your near indiscretions while also wishing you were somehow capable of infidelity.

So you tell her the only thing that does make sense. “You should probably go.”

Emily nods and takes a sideways step  into the corridor, just after the chamber maids and their trolley full of fresh linens and fragrant new soaps have passed by.

You register the smell of lavender, and you think about how it used to smell on her skin. So with your eyes clenched tightly, you turn towards her and beg, “Don’t go back to her. _Please_.” You sound terribly, fucking desperate. But it’s how you’ve felt for weeks – desperate and helpless and a host of other ailments you thought you’d long since outgrown.

She doesn’t give you a chance to take it back, or to amend the demand you’ve got no right to make, because she’s quick to say with a helpless shrug, “Don’t leave again.”

Your mouth is open to answer her, but she’s stolen all the air. She’s taken every last particle from you. She’s taken _everything_ , again.

“I can’t not go,” you finally manage, your eyes again filling with tears, your voice rising an octave or two so that it sounds small and weak.

Emily takes another heavy shrug as tears of her own spring up and roll down her face – the moisture of them getting trapped in the reddened crevices of her right cheek. She sounds equally as broken when she tells you, “Neither can I.”

**

The first text comes hours later.

_Lewis and I at Katie’s hotel. Not as posh as yours, but I’m feeling better_

There’s a relief in that – relief that she’s with Katie and not _elsewhere_ – but now you’re completely distracted by her again, where for the past few hours you’d been only moderately distracted. At one point during your shower, finding yourself just staring at your right hand – the one that’d been pressed to her – for so long you forget to wash your hair and have to get in again after towelling dry.

_Be sure Katie knows I’ve finally gone classier than her. Pleased you and L are alright._

Emily’s reply doesn’t come for another hour or so, and you’ve spent most of that time just staring at this half-written note to your boss, replaying the last 12 hours over and over again in your head.

_Lunch at The Table? It’s in Southbank. Southwark st?_

You sigh heavily, snap shut the lid of your computer and start to thumb a reply.

Running into Emily at a random, London coffee shop had been surreal. Meeting Katie in a café where you’d _expected_ to find Emily, or at the very least Katie _and_ Emily, feels like fucking déjà vu.

She’s facing you – sat at a table you can see upon entering – so the element of surprise isn’t what it once was. But she’s wearing a familiar smirk, an almost nice smile that you want to trust, because you’re no longer sixteen and part of you remembers a Katie Fitch who was almost a _friend_ at points in your life, but feel equally unsettled by.

“Relax,” she says as soon as you’ve reached the table, your face no doubt displaying your hesitancy. “Emily’s meeting us here – she just had to meet Rose at home first.”

Your face must pale at that because Katie, almost fucking _affectionately_ , takes your wrist in her hand when she stands up from the table, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“You could, like, give me a fucking hug or something.” Her smile looks more genuine than you’ve ever seen it then, and she adds, “Promise I won’t bite or anything.”

You relax a bit at that and try on a smile. Hugging Katie Fitch is about as awkward an exchange as you’ll probably ever have, save the time you’d been sexually harassed by your politics teacher, perhaps. And you sort of laugh, involuntarily, at the correlation you’ve just drawn between an innocent embrace with someone you’d spent nearly _every_ day with for several summers, and a pervy, misguided professor.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, pulling away and eyeing you sceptically.

“Forget it,” you tell her with a shake of your head, and clear your throat.

Katie takes her seat, and you follow suit then look at her properly for the first time. Her hair is a lovely, natural shade of brown – lighter than Emily’s, you note – and what little make-up she’s wearing is soft and subtle, making her eyes look warmer than you remember them.

“You’re looking good, Katie.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, was that a _compliment_?”

“Thought since we were old, hugging pals now, a compliment wouldn’t be completely out-of-line,” you say, to which she just sort of chuckles while placing a napkin along her lap. But then, you can hardly concentrate on much other than her sister these days, and ask casually, “So Emily went back to the flat – alone?”

Katie looks up from the table, her expression so confident and _calm_ , it’s hard to remember her as the once obnoxious, loud, and horribly abrasive girl who tried to humiliate you for years.

“Emily’s a big girl.”

“Yes, but—“

“She doesn’t need her overbearing sister to swoop in and protect her – I’m not here to wage her fucking battles, Naomi.

“But, clearly you’re worried. You flew all the way here.” You can feel your pulse accelerating even as Katie’s demeanour remains quiet and rational.

“I’m here for support, and to help her sort out a shitty situation. Rose isn’t a violent person, you know.” She says it easily, as if she’d just told you, _‘Rose makes delicious pudding.’_

And you scoff, pushing back into your chair and folding your arms. “I beg to fucking differ, Katie.”

A server stops by the table, fills up your glass with water and asks if you’d like something else to drink. You’d like several strong drinks, thanks, in rapid succession preferably. But you stick to water because that’s what Katie’s drinking and you’re meant to just follow her lead now, apparently.

“You’ve seen her _face_ , Katie,” you then say, this time keeping your tone a bit more controlled, a bit less frantic. “What’s to say Rose isn’t capable of doing that again? That she hasn’t already done?”

“She hasn’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Emily told me. And then she fucking _reassured_ me multiple times when I wouldn’t let it go.”

You feel almost relieved that Katie hasn’t changed completely, badgering Emily for the truth being one of her favourite pastimes.

“What if she’s lying? It wouldn’t be the first time she’s withheld something from you.” It’s a low blow, and an extremely dated insult given the context, but it’s no less true. And if you can’t lash out at Rose, as you’d like, it’ll apparently be Katie who gets the brunt of your anger.

Katie takes a long, relaxing drink of water before continuing. “Emily doesn’t need to lie to me anymore, not that she ever did. She’s not kept anything from me in a very long time.” And then with a light laugh and a quick shake of her head, she appends, “Well, except that apparently she’s been in contact with _you_ for the past two months.”

Your face flushes at that, and you look down to your hands placed on your lap. “Oh.”

“Anyway,” she says, and you chance a look back up, trying not to focus on the news that Emily’s been keeping secrets about you yet again. “I get that things are pretty volatile at the moment. But it’s not for the reasons you think.”

“How do you know what I think?” You furrow your brow and sit back – shrinking away from  her as much as you physically can – because the thought of Katie Fitch deducing _anything_ about you still feels like the worst kind of violation.

“Because it’s written all over your face, babes,” she smiles, taking another sip of water. It’s a pet name she used for Effy, and then for Freddie, and for basically _everyone_ that wasn’t you; and you don’t like the way that hearing it now makes it sound fucking endearing or something.

But then, if Katie already knows your secrets then there’s no use hiding anything else, and maybe coming clean to her will alleviate some of the guilt you’ve been carrying around for days and probably much longer.

“I said something to her, to _Rose_ , about Emily.” You keep your gaze on the table but chance a look up to find Katie watching expectantly, which makes you clear your throat. “About me _and_ Emily, sort of.”

“Never did know how to keep your mouth shut, did you?”

Your about to protest – to come clean about the whole, sodding thing – when Katie sighs heavily and continues.

“This isn’t about you, Naomi. And this isn’t about Emily and whatever the fuck she’s been doing with you since you reappeared.”

Instinctually, you want to shout, _‘Nothing!’_ but then you see a succession of images: park benches, fresh-cut flowers, bottles of wine, candied apples, cocktail dresses, your hotel bed, her lingering smile. So you stop short of saying anything and pinch your lips together because you know, in many ways, it would be a lie.

“Rose is ill, okay?”

It’s not what you’d been expecting, and when you open your mouth to respond, the only word you can locate is, “What?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, you know,” Katie says, but just as you’re about to press her, she keeps going. “Emily was pretty specific about keeping schtum.”

You shrug, folding your arms over your chest. “So why are you?”

“I sort of feel like I, you know, owe you one.”

“Oh,” you smile, a small one that you’re not certain Katie will return, but when she does you take a deep breath and clear your throat before telling her, “Thanks, Katie.”

“Whatever,” she says with a well-practiced eye roll. And it’s comforting, after all this time, to see parts of the old Katie resurfacing. “If it will get you to chill the fuck out, it’s worth it.” She sighs again, like she’s readying for some big speech, and then says, “I don’t know everything, okay? But apparently, Rose has had, like, some mental instabilities in the past that she’s been medicated for, and which Emily knew about and everything. Thing is, when she got pregnant, those medications were altered for the safety of the baby, but Rose didn’t exactly disclose that information to Emily.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, so Rose delivers and starts acting differently – natural hormonal surges coupled with a change in her meds and stuff – and Emily noticed, but she just thought it was—“

“Post-partum.” Katie nods as you finish her thought, your mind racing back to a distraught Emily, barely concealing her worry over an afternoon coffee just weeks prior. “Jesus,” you breathe out.

“Yeah.” Katie looks at her mobile where it’s sat on the table before continuing. “Apparently, Rose has already contacted her doctors, and they fully expect changing back her meds will stabilise the highs and lows, regulating her back to how she was prior to having Lewis. Or, so say the three-to-four hundred messages she’s left with Emily.”

“Well, that’s – something,” you say with a hard swallow.

Katie nods then tilts her head a bit to one side. “Though, I’m not sure something like this gets remedied with a new lot of pills, you know? I mean, there’s mood swings and mild instabilities, or whatever, and then there’s splitting your girlfriend’s face wide open.”

“Right,” you say feebly. And then blink several times at the empty space behind Katie’s head when graphic images of Emily being struck make your mouth go dry. You can’t very well ask Emily, and for once Katie’s brutal honesty is just what you want to hear, and so you ask, “You really don’t think this was at all brought about by my being here? By what I said to Rose?”

“I know it’s hard to imagine, being an up-yourself twat and all,” Katie offers with a smirk.

“I’m serious, Katie.”

Her face settles then, into something more sincere. “It had nothing to do with you, okay?” When you nod, Katie finally looks away and then says, “Honestly, it’s probably good you were here.”

You blink again to clear your thoughts before catching Katie’s eye, her mouth quirked up just so.

“What makes you say that?”

“I mean, don’t ever, fucking repeat this to anyone, but if Emily needed a safe place to go – well, I’m glad it was with you.”

You can feel yourself blush, heat in your neck and earlobes, until you glance up to see Katie looking just as uncomfortable with her doting as you feel. So, you rescue her from all the warm sentiment, and regard her with some familiar disdain. “Easy now, Katie – can’t have Emily under the delusion that you actually like me after all this time.”

“You’re still so, fucking annoying,” she scowls, her eyes narrowed but sparkling with a bit of amusement just the same.

So you smile in return and reach for your water glass. “Likewise.”

Emily arrives shortly thereafter, clearly out-of-sorts and feeling uneasy. You can only watch helplessly as she picks at her food, trying not to look too closely at the red beneath her eyes, the only proof you need that she’s been crying.  While Katie talks, _incessantly_ , just like she always has – though part of you guesses that today it’s also for Emily’s benefit – she keeps reaching out to touch her sister’s arm as these subtle reassurances that she’s still there. Reminding her that she’s not going anywhere, and that Emily, whether or not she can see an end in sight, will be alright.

Katie seems to be filling a role you can’t. Or _shouldn’t_. Because she’s comforting Emily in these subtle ways that you know she needs, but also because Katie’s cautiously asking all the questions burning at the back of your throat. The ones you dare not ask. Emily explains that Rose’s mum is staying at the flat, caring for Lewis as she had the night previous when everything came flying apart at the seams. She says that Lewis seems unaffected by the _instance_ , and for that she’s grateful. She says Rose is absolutely gutted by her actions, by the harm she’s done, and wishes to care for Emily; and for that, she feels completely lost. She tells Katie, not daring a glance in your direction, that she’ll stay with her at the hotel, if she doesn’t mind, for another few nights. And for that, you sigh with relief.

“You’ll stay with me until we get things sorted, Ems," Katie confirms. "I’m not going anywhere so there’s no need to rush for a solution, okay? I know this is shit.”

Emily smiles sadly and nods, but by mid-meal, she seems a bit better. Or, at the very least, she seems less likely to break apart at any moment.

Still, it’s not how you want to leave her, so fragile and hurting. It doesn’t seem fair that you’ve come all this way just to be forced to leave her like this, _again_.

“Big plans on your last night then, Campbell?” Katie spears a carrot onto her fork and looks to you with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, just having an early supper with, um, Effy, actually.”

“Christ,” Katie laughs. “Of _course_ you are.”

“You should meet us,” you then rush out, a look of surprise crossing both their faces, and for a second you feel like you’re seeing double, their expressions mirroring each other so closely. “For drinks,” you append, and then announce to the table that it would be _fun_.  You’re not sure if that’s really true because you’ve never kept tabs on Katie and Effy, and on what plane of truce or tolerance they exist at any given time. Though, you’re clearly acting on selfish impulse anyway and couldn’t actually give a shit if the two of them end up mud wrestling on the Heath, so long as you get more time with Emily.

“Drinks with Effy Stonem – that doesn’t _at all_ sound like the worst, conceivable way to spend my evening. Are you fucking joking?” Katie smiles incredulously at your offer, even if you’re fairly certain a part of her is dying to know what Effy is up to these days. “Anyway, Ems is probably exhausted.” She looks to her sister who’s again gone quiet. “Aren’t you?”

Emily shrugs, though not at Katie, and your pulse quickens the instant her eyes meet yours. “Might be sort of nice.”

You smile when Emily does, both of you equally nervous and relieved to be postponing, yet again, whatever goodbyes are left to be said.

And you can’t look away when she’s sat so close, when it could be long months or even years before you see her again. So you keep watch on her, even after she’s looked back to her half-empty plate. Even when Katie, with reluctance finally sighs, “Well this should be interesting.”

**

Partly, you’re rather curious to see how this newly-matured, subdued version of Katie might interact with Effy, a girl whom she once idolised so heavily she was able to forgive having her head split open with a rock. Of course, you’ve failed to factor in the significance of alcohol and its tendency to reduce you all to acting half your age.

Katie gets louder – both her voice and her personality – and seems much more recognisable to you now, even if it appears she’s omitted animals prints from her wardrobe. Effy is more animated in that, at one point, she grabs onto the arm of Katie’s chair to keep from spitting her drink onto the table. Emily laughs, _really_ laughs, like she’s not just experienced the worst kind of trauma. Like she’s not tried to hide that trauma behind an extra layer of concealer.

It’s during your second round of drinks that Katie’s launched into some embarrassing retell of an afternoon back in Bristol, cackling so loudly you think Effy’s grin has never looked so genuine for how much she’s enjoying it. Emily leans back into the booth, sips from her drink, and lets her sister carry on.

You lean across the seat and towards her ear because the music’s far too loud. “You enjoying this then?”

Katie’s story has been momentarily derailed by Effy, who wants to know in exactly what state of undress you and Emily had been when Jenna entered the twins’ room carrying a basket of laundry.

“Yeah, I am,” Emily smiles. “It’s nice. Sort of distracting, in a good way.”

“Yeah, it is,“ you tell her, returning her smile. “And you’re feeling alright? All things considered?”

She exhales lightly and nods. “Yeah. All things considered.”

You want to ask more, and you don’t. You want to know everything, and you want to forget just as much. There’s an internal conflict waging without a good solution, so it’s helpful that Katie chooses this moment to insult you.

“—just fucking carrying on like we’re invisible over here, as per.” It’s the last of Katie’s sentence that trails into your conscious after having let yourself lock eyes with Emily again, when you’ve  _promised_ yourself you would fucking stop.

“Sorry,” you say, looking back to Katie with some feigned annoyance. “But do you think we could move on from the stories where I’d been caught with my knickers around my ankles?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Naomi,” Katie coos, tipping what’s left of her martini into her mouth then licking her lips with a wicked smirk. “The memories of you having been caught with your tits out are some of my _favourites_.”

“Fucking pervert,” you laugh, tossing a lime wedge from Emily’s drink in Katie’s direction. When it lands in her cleavage, the table erupts in laughter that sounds like another lifetime.

Emily mentions some time later that Katie might like to see the Asylum exhibit. And because you’ve had more than your fair share of wine, you’ve already hailed a taxi and hear yourself boasting about still holding a key to the chapel before realising that Emily probably meant Katie would enjoy the installation at some point while she’s in town, and not like, _immediately_.

When you’ve all crammed into the back of a taxi, Emily whispers, “You didn’t have to do this now – it’s already after eleven.”

But you can’t go back now, the offer already extended. So you shift around on the slippery vinyl of the backseat until your leg isn’t pressed so fully to hers. “No, it’ll be great. We’ll have the place to ourselves and won’t be bothered by _obnoxiously opinionated_ art critics and pretentious admirers of the work.”

“Present company excluded,” she then says, her voice sort of low and her smile something wonderful, and it’s maybe the only insult you’ve ever received that makes your stomach flip nervously.

The cab ride and short walk to the venue have sobered you all considerably, though it doesn’t stop your voices from bouncing through the space, ricocheting from the crumbling stone walls all the way up to the exposed iron beams. You pair off with Effy, unintentionally, since you’re already so familiar with the work, and Effy seems generally disinterested by the concept of modern art.  

When you turn your head to her, after watching the twins standing in front of one of Trevor’s pieces, Effy’s eyeing you like she’s just caught you looking at porn or something. You’re a breath away from asking her what the hell she’s looking at, when her face neutralises again and the tension in your shoulders dissipates.  

Effy just says, “I need a fag,” before walking away from you. And after a moment’s hesitation, you start off after her because if there’s one thing Effy has always been able to do, it’s getting people to follow her for no apparent reason.

When you catch up to her, Effy’s already lit two fags and hands one to you after you’ve propped open the chapel door with a rock.

“Careful,” she grins and cocks her head towards your makeshift doorstop. “Don’t let Katie see that.”

You follow her gaze and then laugh, taking a drag while shaking your head. “We were so fucked up, weren’t we?”

Effy just shrugs and looks out towards the dark, open space in front of you. “We were just kids. And anyway, some of us are still fucked up.”

She could be referring to Emily. Or to you. Or even to herself, but it doesn’t matter because you don’t ask her to elaborate. In any case, it’s probably true. You smoke silently for a few more drags, noting with a shiver the chill in the air that hadn’t been there just a week prior.

“You still haven’t worked anything out, have you?” Effy says, turning her head to look at you.

“What is there to work out?” you respond tiredly. “I’m leaving and she’s with—“

“She asked you to stay.”

“Yeah – and for _what_ exactly?” Your agitation is showing in your stance, your arms crossed tightly along your chest, and in the way you take quick drags from the remainder of your cigarette.

The door behind you creaks open, and you still your rigid movements. You don’t even have to turn around to know who’s found you because the look on Effy’s face says everything.

“There you are – sorry, but Katie needs the loo, and I can’t remember where it is. I was sort of pissed at the opening, apparently.” Emily’s short little chuckles float past your shoulder, raising the hair on your neck, and Effy just smiles, crushing the end of her fag against the wall beside you.

“I’ll be right there,” Effy tells her. And when you hear the door creak back into place she looks at you with this kind of affectionate command and says, “We’re not kids anymore, Naomi. Fucking sort it out.”

**

You find Emily sat on one of the used couches strewn about the place – they all smell a bit funny but look rather perfect, some torn and tattered, with the rest of the space – and take just a minute to look at her before the click-clack of your shoes gives you away and she looks up.

Emily greets you just like she always has. “Hey.”

You sit, pressing the palms of your hands flat against the old, crushed velvet of the sofa that’s worn thin and smooth. “Hey.”

“I don’t think I ever said thank you.” Emily’s perched at the sofa’s edge, unable to relax, and you tense in response.

“For this? It’s not really a big deal.”

She then glances at you, just quickly, from over her shoulder and tries to smile. “No, not for this.” Looking down to her shoes she says quietly, “For everything else.”

You have to swallow hard, lightly clear your throat, before you can answer. “Sure.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually leaving,” she then says. And she doesn’t look at you when she says it, which is maybe why you’re able to respond so quickly, without thinking.

“I can’t believe you’re _staying_.” You don’t have to finish by saying ‘ _with her_ ’ because the mild disdain in your voice is implication enough.

“I don’t—“ she starts, and then just shakes her head.

“Stop doing that.”

It’s more shock than anything that you see when Emily looks over to you. “Stop _what_?”

You’re exasperated, that much is clear. “Stop fucking censoring yourself, Emily. Stop saying only half of what you mean to say. Just – _stop_.” You take a deep breath, and then say, “You don’t what?”

Emily’s eyes are already brimmed with tears when she does what you’ve asked. “I don’t want to leave her.” She swallows hard and then looks away again. “I know I should, that it doesn’t make any sense to stay after what’s happened. But – I love her, you know?”

It’s not very audible, not even considering the acoustics of the room in which you’re sat, but you manage to say, “I know.”

The expansive chapel falls silent for long seconds, the sounds of your breathing not quite strong enough to create echoes.

“I don’t know what to do,” Emily finally says, working to keep her voice steady. She’s leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped tightly under her shaky chin.

“You’ll figure it out, Ems.” It’s shit advice, and you know it. But you’ve never in your life felt more ill-equipped to say the right thing to her.

“Will I?” She turns to you then, her watery eyes pleading for an answer. “I’ve always been pretty shit at making these sorts of decisions.”

“Don’t say that.” Your voice is quiet as you look away, down to your hands which have begun to fidget the material of your dress. “This is different, Emily. We’re not kids, and Rose – she isn’t me. Your decision this time is totally, fucking different.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily is quick to correct. “I didn’t mean to imply that I think of you as the same – I know it’s different.” She pauses then, but you can still feel her eyes on you. “It’s not any easier now than when we were just stupid kids though, is it?” You look up when Emily just sighs, still looking back at you from over her shoulder. “Deciding what’s right?”

She’s asking two things again, and you hear one so much clearer than what she’s said out loud. You’ve been making decisions based on what’s ‘ _right’_ for the past two months, and none of it has been easy. Because, in the end, you’ve got to walk away from her, again. The pain of it slicing through you as she watches for your response isn’t lessened at all by age, by some false sense of maturity, and so you look away with a furrowed brow. “No, it’s not any easier.”

She leans back then, so your shoulders are nearly touching, and sighs. Your name sounds small and indecisive, “Naomi.” When you turn to her she’s already looking, her expression some mix of fear and regret. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes sting, but you refuse to come undone and harshly clear your throat before asking, “What if you could choose differently?”

“What do you mean?” Emily says, though her voice sounds hesitant, like you probably ought not continue with this line of thinking.

“If you could go back to when we _were_ just stupid kids, would you do things differently?” You only look up from your lap when two of Emily’s fingers lay across yours where both your hands are pressed against the sofa cushion between you.

Emily blinks and swallows, glancing quickly to your lips then back to your eyes, which have watered a bit despite your fighting against it. “Would _you?_ ”

You could hear a pin drop for how still everything’s gone in that massive chapel. So your heart nearly stops at the sound of Katie’s voice and the clicking of her and Effy’s shoes against the floors. Emily doesn’t really acknowledge the interruption, except to move her fingers from your own, and instead keeps her eyes locked on you. You have to look away first, after a few, long seconds, Emily’s gaze unrelenting.  

“Better get going, I think,” you say, after clearing your throat, and stand to join Effy and Katie as they approach.

Before splitting off in separate taxis, you find yourself wrapped in another embrace with Katie, and then try not to hug Emily for any longer than you’ve already hugged Katie, even though she clings a bit to the fabric of your dress and rests her chin, just briefly, onto your shoulder. It nearly shatters you, letting her go, but it was always going to come down to this. From the very start, there was only ever this: watching as she leaves. It doesn’t make you feel any better, the predictability of it, and when it’s just you and Effy again, you link arms and rest your head against her shoulder in the back of a taxi. It’s not at all comfortable since she’s never had enough body fat to properly snuggle into, but it feels nice and like something you’ll miss horribly once you’ve left for New York.

After several minutes of silence, Effy says, “Sorted then?”

And it’s not ever going to be, you think. Not really, not ever. But it’s as good as over now because Emily will stay and you’ll leave, and that will be that. So you just answer dully, “Yeah. Sure.”

Effy doesn’t say anything else, just wraps her bony fingers around your own and holds on tight.

Just before falling asleep – and you’re well knackered, already dreading the early wake-up call – you find Emily’s number in your mobile, and type out a text.  You then deliberate sending it for another twenty minutes, obsessing over the minutiae of its message. You stare at it for even longer after it’s been sent, though not because you’re awaiting a response. It was Emily who needed an answer, and after this, you think, there’ll be nothing left to say. For such a short reply, it says so much more than you’ve ever been able to.

 _Yes, everything_. 

 

 


End file.
